Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
Whether he thought he was broken or not, she still worried. Whether he was broken or not, she still worried. She'd dragged him into this vat of acid and bile, and she knew how it ate at hope and marrow. She knew how it ruined things, and she knew absolution was bullshit. He could say whatever about it not being her fault, but he wouldn't be in that hour-long window of devastation without her, yeah? No one could take that shit from her, even without all the pieces to the puzzle.
But for all her convictions, she felt weak as fuck in that numb-cotton haze. She was trying not to think about pieces of Joey in ribbon'ed boxes, and the sedatives made concentrating hard. Or they made remembering hard. She wasn't fixated on that box, the one in the refrigerator. She'd tucked it there, like keeping Joey on ice would keep him longer, and no one in her family died. They all got into trouble, and they all got sent far and wide, but no one died.
Until now.
And she wasn't expecting him to tell the old nurse no more sedatives, but she was fucking grateful that he did. She didn't think for a second that the woman wouldn't listen, because she figured everyone listened to him, yeah? And maybe it was better, this fuzzy state of nothing. But she hated it, and it was better to scream and cry and understand why she was trembling. That was better than not feeling, because this was shit she should feel. Her brother was dead. Her brother was fucking dead.
But the man on the bed with her was distraction, and he pressed his forehead to hers and the box disappeared, tucked back into the corners of her mind, something to be remembered again in a minute, white and ribbon'ed and next to the iceberg lettuce. And he smelled like himself, and there was nothing to him but him. He smiled, and she felt better. Just that one fucking thing, that smile, and she thought maybe it would be ok. Maybe he would be ok. His arms around her, and so fucking close, and maybe it would be ok.
Chin, hair, and she nudged him, pushed, nudged, wanting him to sprawl onto his back. If he gave in, she crawled atop him, like he was a mattress made for her to lie upon or whatever. Safer, warmer, and maybe a little selfish. Whatever, and her head against his chest, against the white of his undershirt.
"Papi." She said the word all alone. Nothing before, nothing after, and she reached down into the pocket of the scrubs and dug into the fabric, deep. Closed fist, she lifted her hand and brought it to where her cheek was pressed against the thump of his heart. She unfurled her fingers, and she balanced the black king there, on that snowy-white fabric. It took a few tries to make him stand without toppling, but it was something good to focus on, yeah? Something so fucking simple. She had shit she wanted to say, that she needed to say, but no.
She concentrated on the king and his perch, fingertip righting him whenever he threatened to topple.